


the fear of falling apart

by buckybun



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) Has Anxiety, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Korean Keith (Voltron), M/M, Sad Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 20:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14269125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckybun/pseuds/buckybun
Summary: a heith college aukeith can’t take the pressure of the garrison anymore, not when it feels like he’s drowning every single day, not when his world is darkening around him, not when it feels like he’ll never be good enough for anyone. (even himself.)basically me self-projecting onto keith





	the fear of falling apart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drippingcandles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drippingcandles/gifts).



> i’m self projecting again aaaa save me—  
> there’s something uniquely hellish about the way depression works in the minds of high achieving students, and i am suffering at its hands  
> but!!! my pain does not negate yours: whether you are in the same situation as me or not, you are valid, and you deserve better, and i hope you will find your happy ending.
> 
> a small disclaimer: i’m not sure if the more intense parts of this count as an anxiety attack (as everyone experiences them differently and i write based on my personal experience); and there is heavy description of suicidal ideation/thoughts/attempt, so if you can be easily triggered by mention of these events and choose to read, please read carefully!

keith sat on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter of their shared apartment, staring at nothing. his hands lay loosely folded in his lap, and his feet dangled above the ground. the only signs of life he had exhibited in the last eight minutes were breathing, blinking, and the occasional involuntary head twitch.

internally, he was burning in the depths of hell.

iverson’s 12 page aviation paper, assigned a month ago, was due in three days on monday, and there was a notebook check and presentation runthrough the following day, both with a two week notice. the school orchestra had a performance on sunday night, and a four hour dress rehearsal that morning. he was also well overdue to turn in the notes from last tuesday, when he was absent from calc ii to attend his dance recital.

keith knew very well that the paper had exactly half of a heading in his computer, and no research done. the notebook required 3 more pages of notes as well as a synopsis and outside research essay, which he estimated would take at least 2 hours. each. his presentation was halfway finished (in terms of slides, at least), but the oral portion left much to be desired— he could already feel the points draining away. the orchestra pieces were unpolished at best, and unpracticed at worst. his violin was sitting by his bed, gathering dust. if keith didn’t pick up the slack quickly, he was going to lose third chair, or worse, be thrown out of the full orchestra scholarship program altogether. he didn’t let himself think about the consequences of that.

photos of the calc ii notes blinked at him from the screen of his phone, sent from pidge. his pen laid on the counter, uncapped. the notebook page was about a third of the way covered in his 5 am handwriting from yesterday (this morning?). to his hazy mind, nothing on the page made sense.

his breathing picked up, mind kicking into overdrive. his glazed violet eyes darted unseeingly around his scattered supplies. keith slowly closed his hands into fists. his untrimmed fingernails left pale indents in his palm.

it was useless. there was no way, no way he’d finish all this work in time. his throat tightened as he picked up the pen with faintly shaking hands. swallowing convulsively, he zoomed in on the page and resumed writing.

five minutes(? was it? time no longer felt real, only the frantic thudding of his heart and the shaking of his leg.) later, keith realized that he was writing blindly through a film of tears. hollowly, he brushed them away. crying wouldn’t help him, it would only be a waste of time. time he couldn’t afford. he flipped the page.

he looked at the clock. half an hour divided by 7 pages was less than 5 minutes per page. he tried not to think about the impossibility of completing each page in less than five minutes.

keith slammed his pen down an hour later, deleting the last photo. there was no relief, no respite from the adrenaline thrumming in his body. it was already 5 pm, and hunk would be back from teaching the culinary class downtown soon. the least keith could do was start preparing dinner, seeing as hunk’s income basically covered their living expenses.

keith felt guilty that he was basically leeching off hunk’s salary from his classes and his job at a small local restaurant, but he didn’t have the time or energy to go job hunting between his courses, orchestra, and part time job as a dance instructor and choreographer.

standing up, he felt a sudden head rush, and his legs tingled as he walked unsteadily to the refrigerator. his heart was suddenly beating heavily in his throat, and there was a buzzing noise in his ears. ignoring it, keith forced himself to take out the leftovers from the night before and automatically reached for the cabbage, remembering shiro pounding he importance of eating green into his head.

keith may have spent 8 of the last 100 hours sleeping, but he still knew how to cook a decent meal. the change in activity was only an infinitesimal relief when he was all too aware that his essay was glaring at the back of his head. the presentation sat on the open screen of the computer, cursor blinking away.

his vision blurred again, eyes stinging and throat tight. this time, he allowed himself the tears. hot trails traced down the curve of his cheeks and he blinked them away as the knife sliced too close to his finger.

he glanced at the clock again. five minutes. he was running behind schedule. panic flared back to life in his stomach, and keith wondered if he was about to be sick. there was an unpleasant burning sensation crawling up his esophagus, and he swore the crackling was his own imagination.

keith dropped the knife, hearing the dull clatter of the handle against the plastic cutting board as if from a great distance. he took a step back to his seat, then froze, wavering. panicked eyes darted from his workspace to the cooking and he tried to calculate how many precious minutes he would be wasting as he cooked. was it too much?

his hands shook, hovering in front of him. well, he was going to have to finish cooking anyway. he closed his fingers around the knife and finished chopping the vegetables. his hands worked by themselves, a product of having cooked for himself for years, and he tried to revise his oral presentation in his head. the introduction circled insanely through his head; he could think of nothing else.

inhaling deeply, keith ran cold water over his arms and face. the cold water did nothing but dampen his sleeves and make his eyes sting even more. his skin felt tight, like he was trapped inside a plastic bag.

the knife shone dully in the overhead kitchen lights. for a dangerous second, his eye caught on it.

it felt like the contents of his ribcage had sagged six inches and crumpled in on itself. he imagined his lungs and stomach and heart seeping black, spreading like a disease. like spilled ink. if he coughed, it would splatter.

he swallowed hard, hand hovering again. this time, keith closed it with difficulty and held the knife, testing its weight. the pale skin of his forearm, exposed by his rolled up sleeve when he went to splash water onto himself. the repeated flash in the corner of his vision told him that his other hand was shaking.

could he?

nothing was worth it anymore. all his life, things had been hard: early abandonment led to the orphanage, led to the foster homes, led to the military school, led to the garrison. he had been given up because his parents hadn’t wanted him. nobody wanted him. his closed off and irascible personality kept everyone away, and if that didn’t drive people away, his discipline did. his behavioral issues had mellowed as the years passed, and another problem slid into its place— he was too old for anyone to want him. why take the angry mistrustful teenager when there were sweet, adorable children? he enrolled himself into military academies, riding off scholarships and financial aid, learning to fake being a good, likable kid long enough to get the help he needed.

and it was all about to go down the drain. when he was younger, the only thing desirable about him were his stellar academics. many of the subjects came easy (consider him asian privilege checked) and he topped classes through elementary and middle school, even skipping a grade or two. (nobody ever showed up to the awards assemblies.)

in high school, he stuttered. extracurriculars, community service, and advanced classes... he couldn’t keep up. dance and orchestra classes occupied much of his time outside of school, and homework was taking longer to finish. community service was hard given his lack of communication skill— he maintained a minimal number of hours to stay in the clubs. he survived to enroll into college.

keith had the impression that he was sinking. like black quicksand. he was swallowed up.

at first, it was the futility. everything became pointless, deadlines were unreal until the anxiety overtook him. what was the point? do this assignment just to be assigned more? and after college? it was never-ending, why not just give up now? he pushed those thoughts away. he didn’t have time to be pondering that when he had an unfinished project due in less than 4 hours.

next was the constant exhaustion. everything became a burden. breathing itself was a monumental effort, and sand collected in the crooks of his arms and legs. sleeping was like cryosleep— a temporary escape that passed in the blink of an eye. there was no rest, only what his body needed to function. each time he opened his eyes, he was more tired than before.

and the anxiety. it was easy to ignore at first, and he always felt it in the last few days before something big was due that he had put off because it was too much effort or the wee hours of morning when he confessed to himself how little he had completed in the past hours. it felt like his lungs were falling in, like his skull was being crushed, like the fragile bones of his body were being snapped like twigs, like his skin was being ripped apart like tissue paper.

the body that had always been his prison tightened the bars. he felt, in many ways, like a balloon. he was barely tied to reality, floating, distanced, tethered via a thready connection that could be severed at any moment. his skin was stretched tight, and he wondered how he hadn’t popped yet.

a small part of him whispered to slash the knife down, to see if he was really as hollow as he felt.

there was no point anymore. he was a failure, that was that. nobody wanted him— nobody had ever wanted him, and nobody would miss him. it was only ever going to get harder and harder, until he couldn’t keep up anymore, and he’d be left behind to drown. what was the difference, between dying now and dying in sixty years? there was nothing left for him, he decided.

having made the decision, all the built up panic hit him at once, and he reeled, head spinning.

the purple-green veins in his wrist stood out in the stark lighting. his heartbeat was screaming in his ears, his hand was trembling— he felt lightheaded, vision flickering in and out— his legs were thin matchsticks, carrying too heavy a burden— the knife—

  
_“keith?”_


End file.
